Burning Brimstone
by I Stare Sometimes
Summary: "Revenge is not the way," her mother had always told her, and she had always believed it... Lusting for revenge left a hollow, haunting feeling that nagged at her very soul until she couldn't stand it. Ophelia was warped by the chaos of her sorrow, and it wasn't until she met the Winchesters that she realized that she could act, that she could avenge all she lost. But at what cost?
1. Chapter One

_**A/N:**_ _Hey! So. This is my first story ever to release online, so... I'm scared! :D_

 _Now, I've never really shown any current things I write to anyone I know, so I am definitely not promising its good, but I'll be damned if I say it's bad! Heh._

 _So yeah. Idea isn't that original, the chick's a hunter, she meets the guys, and yadda, yadda, yadda, things happen! Despite the fact that it is a tad bit rudimentary, I like it. And that's why I'm doing this. I'm showing what I like to the world, and pray it likes it too!_

* * *

While normal nights in Wisconsin weren't particularly strange, this one inflicted an itch upon one's spine, setting everyone observant enough to pick it up on edge.

As a young woman, of perhaps twenty-three, studied the old abandoned shack before them; she supposed that feeling of impending dread was beneficial, considering her line of work.

"You ready?" Came the clipped tone of an older man, maybe in his late fifties, his gruff voice grating and his scruffy, unshaven, mustached face hard in agitation.

The woman only rolled her eyes and muttered, "Does a bird fly?"

The man - her father - practically sneered at her lame attempt at a joke and marched purposefully towards the abandoned old shack.

 _Well then, I guess he's the 'stomp away' kind of angry with me..._ She thought bitterly, watching him walk away with a wrinkled nose at his attitude. She hoisted the two large bags of salt from behind her mother's car, an old but well-kept blue 1970 LTD Brougham. With a huff, she joined her father at the shack to pour a perimeter of salt - her usual job.

After researching for days, the woman had finally had come up with credible information on the entire reason they had driven to a little worthless town in the middle of nowhere that was vaguely in Wisconsin.

The woman had been checking her usual online news sources when she came across a death of a completely healthy and squeaky-clean young lady of the town the duo was on the outskirts of.

The lady had been asphyxiated, but there was no bruising, no evidence whatsoever of strangulation other than being found pretty much as purple as a grape. The death had been ruled a heart attack, of all things.

A "natural death" of a heart attack, in the case of a woman with a practically perfect ticker.

The woman heaving salt knew, though... She knew that it was anything _but_ natural.

When they got to the town, no one seemed to know anything about the mysterious death of Abigail Bart... Everyone was so sickeningly sweet and smooth at avoiding questions about it, though. It made the dark-haired member of the duo even more on edge than this biting chill of the night.

But, after noticing some slip-ups between the stories, she finally figured out what tied the whole thing together. Abigail was a young kid, but had moved out of her parent's house, and into an abandoned but admittedly amazing looking old Victorian house... with an unknown and ugly story behind it.

Let's make it more cliche by just saying, there was a damn good reason the house was abandoned and leave it at that.

With her usual technological magic, the woman had pieced together who the ghost possibly could be. She found out that he was a free-roaming spirit, if the past deaths ALL over the town proved correct.

And that was just gr-ea-t.

"...O-phel-ia."

By his snappish, jolting tone, he must've had to repeat himself one too many times, the poor baby.

"What? Yeah. Sorry. What is it?" Her tone was forcibly polite, but she felt as if each word was as if she was willingly gouging her eyes with a dull spork.

He gave her a brief glare and shook his head, mumbling a nevermind, stalking off around the shack to check for anything interesting.

This brush-off stoked a fire in her.

How can he even try to be professional if he was too busy being a mopey little _bitch_?!

 _ **Stop.**_

 _ **Take a breath.**_

 _ **Restart.**_

Right.

Ghost. _Bad_ ghost.

Right.

While grumbling to herself, she took out her moderately sized buoy knife and sliced open one of the bags of salt to pour around the house stealthily.

Not stealthily enough, apparently.

Ophelia let out a shout of surprise as an invisible force threw her into a tree and held her there, blocking air from entering her lungs.

"D...-! Da...-!" She couldn't get anything else out. She helplessly clawed at her own throat, though nothing was present to scratch at.

Her legs were moving on their own accord, thumping against the tree violently in attempts to free herself or to make a sound to alert her father-she didn't know anymore.

As her throat convulsed with the need to swallow air, her lungs ached, and her brain seemed to be pounding against her skull to the beat of her erratic heartbeat.

 _This is how I die_ , she thought in the inner chaos of her thoughts. This was how she would die, and he wouldn't even care.

Hell, _she_ wouldn't even care.

She calmed down her legs the best she could in her frenzied state, as her body was beginning to shut itself down anyway. She saw thousands of spots dancing across her eyes and blackness cloud the edges of her vision.

The shack was in a clearing in the woods, and at the break in the trees, the luminescent light of the moon stared uncaringly down at her, almost mocking her situation.

Her blood was rushing through her ears like a torrent as her movements became more and more sluggish against the tree, at least a full seven feet from the ground.

She had had both hands clutching at her own throat, but now her right one felt as heavy as lead, and it fell to dangle along with her twitching legs.

She stared at the moon, wide ice-blue eyes illuminated by the orb in the sky, the sheen of her watery eyes made the orbs look startlingly clearer than they already were and showed her fear and vulnerability.

She was going to die.

And _no one_ cared.

Unable to do anything else, she just closed her eyes and waited for her abused lungs to finally give up their fight, and her brain to shut down.

But that never came.

There was a startled yell from below, a familiar voice, but she didn't listen.

There were words, vaguely sounding alike to curses, but she didn't hear them.

She felt herself fell forward, and forward, and forward... She didn't really notice the uncomfortable strain of her ribcage and the thump of her head making contact with the leaf-piled floor of the woods. She needed to breathe.

Nothing made sense as she just tried nothing but to breath, but was only able to hack to the point of coughing up blood.

Her windpipe was raw, and her head was throbbing and spinning as she tried to move.

She heard multiple shots from gun, and then nothing, save for her coughing.

"Ope!" She heard. But she didn't believe she had. She hadn't been called that for a _very_ long time by the voice that had shouted it.

She didn't open her eyes, but she did curl up around herself, uncaring of the dry, filthy leaves that clung to her thick onyx hair.

"Ope!" It sounded closer now, before footsteps sounded further away... Then in front of her.

 _Nothing makes sense._

"Opie," it was calmer than the voice had previously been, but she still didn't open her eyes.

She felt something grip her chin gently and a cold shape met her lips.

"Drink," the voice said. And she _tried_.

It was hard, and the first few attempts almost made it worse - made it feel like she was drowning, actually - but her body finally stopped convulsing.

Somebody lifted her and maneuvered her to sit-up against the very tree that she had almost been killed against.

She opened her eyes and saw her father.

That couldn't be right...

Her brows were furrowed as the pair shared a heavy silence.

 _Now is as good of a time as any, I guess_ , she thought morosely, despite the whole situation.

"Dad," she rasped out, her throat severely resisting her attempts at speech.

She cleared her throat forcefully. They were gonna talk about this, damn it.

"I'm sorry," she managed, succeeding in adding serious emotion to her hoarse voice.

Her father's face grew cold, then resigned.

"It wa'n't a liar's argument, kid," he conceded softly. "It was the truth." His lips were in a contemplative frown, his ridiculously large handlebar mustache looking as if it was protruding off of his face more than it was.

Ophelia stared at the man before her... Her father... And snapped.

Pretty much literally.

Still not entirely in charge of her extremities yet, both of her weakened fists flew up to strike the man before her, uncharacteristic tears of rage clouding her vision. The man had caught her weak fists easily, but was startled by her sudden movement.

" _How can you say that_?!" Ophelia screamed as best as she could. To her ears, it was pathetic. Cracking and hitching and scratching.

"After _all_ of this time, _wh-hy_?!" The last syllable of the last word was lengthened by a half-delirious sob. She wrestled weakly with her father's grip, trying to hit him again.

Her father's steel-gray eyes were hard, but she could see also see him reigning in his potential harsh responses. He let her say her piece, which surprised her, but she pushed on.

"What I said?" She paused, waiting for acknowledgement. He nodded. "Was horseshit," she practically spat. She could see her father open his mouth to reprimand her for her foul language, but he had stopped himself.

"I was mad! And we both _know_ I talk absolute crap when I am mad!" A new wave of a new series of emotions hit her. With her voice thick and trembling, she murmured, "It was just as much my fault as it was yours."

She paused again to cough violently, and rasped out in disbelief, "You really believe it was your fault?"

She glared up at her father, who's grip on her clenched fists was practically loose, as he stared down with his cold steel eyes looking like a rainy day.

"Yes," he murmured, setting her hands on her lap. "I do, Opie."

Ophelia's breath caught in her throat at the use of her childhood nickname on his tongue. She _hadn't_ been dreaming.

"Daddy..." she cried softly, her voice had reached a higher octave, one of shock and a sadness she hasn't felt in a long time.

He stood suddenly, leaving her to choke back tears in utter disbelief.

She quieted herself, allowing the silence overtake her, her hands going to surround her father's canteen that had been forgotten in her lap.

She finished the water, placed the canteen beside her and stood, leaving the shack, leaving her father, and leaving the Brougham her mother had named Wanda when Ophelia was just eight-years-old.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** _I did it! I posted the first chapter! Mwhahaha.. So, this WILL be a Sam/OC, because, DAMMIT, Opie can FIX HIM!... *cough* But, believe me, it was pretty difficult to decide which to pick... HEH. ANYWAY._

 _So yeah! Leave a review if you like it, getting responses on what I write makes me happy!_

 _Thank you for reading, and have a great day/night/other!_


	2. Chapter Two

**_A_** _ **/N:**_ _Hello once again! I would've uploaded this chapter sooner had I not been distracted by skewl, but what else is new, ya know? Of course you do._

 _Anyway! I am gonna be honest and say I am very pensive about this chapter. I don't know if I made Dean... well, DEAN enough. Or Sam Sam enough._

 _I'd love if I got some more responses after this chapter to see if you thought the meeting of Sam and Dean was amazing, or if it was mediocre, or if it was downright awkward and/or not real enough._

 _In response to mun3litKnight: Dean. Oof. This was originally going to be a Dean/OC, but I was indecisive and held a vote with my friends. xD_

 _Anyway, enough blabbing... and here you go!_

* * *

She took to the road they had taken to find the cabin. It was a simple sun-faded two-lane road with no lights, and _best of all_ \- _no_ cars.

The only sound she could hear was that of her steel-toed combat boots crunching in the road-side gravel, but it wasn't long before the sound became annoyingly monotonous in their chant of _thump, crunch, scrape_.

She lost track of time, not allowing her thoughts to turn to her father as she walked the seemingly endless road to the town that she had forgotten the name of. It was... Appleton... or something like that.

 _No, wait_ , she thought distractedly, feeling both of her back pockets on her jeans. _Apple-something was the name of the motel..._

She was startled out her stupor when she faintly heard a car roaring down the highway. The sound was very distinct, and she immediately quelled the fear of it being her father when she identified the engine purr to belong to an Impala. Sixty-seven, at the least.

She turned around and watched the road, seeing the lights far off in the distance. As she waited, she casually strolled backwards, sticking her thumb out to the road when the car got close enough, praying they'd let her bum a ride into town. It would be another hour, at least, on foot.

To her relief, the sleek car pulled over in front of her. She smiled slightly as she heard the beginning intro to "Stairway to Heaven", her mother's favorite, playing quietly from the black Impala.

She shielded her eyes from the headlights and could just barely make out the shape of two men in the front seat, the man at the wheel rolling down the window, waiting for her to approach.

She walked forward, making sure her voice wouldn't rasp by quietly clearing her throat.

"Howdy," she drawled sarcastically, mimicking what ninety-five percent of the town said in greeting to her and her father.

She bent down drastically to get her tall height low enough for her to peer through the somewhat low Impala window to smile at the man.

He returned the smile easily, although a bit falsely, as he imitated her. "Howdy," he replied with vague sarcasm, but he seemed pleasant enough.

He shifted himself to observe her better. "If I may ask, what are you doin' out in the middle of nowhere, Miss uh...-"

"Drake," she finished, offering an amiable hand through his window for him to take with her nicest smile.

He took the offered hand, albeit a tad cautiously. Ophelia didn't miss it.

His hands were rough and calloused.

"Dean," he replied with another slight pause. Almost unnoticeable, but Ophelia didn't miss it.

His voice was naturally gruff, not because of his hushed tone.

She rejuvenated her bright smile. "Dean, then. If it isn't too much trouble, would you please help a girl out and deliver her to town?" She had opted for using a drawl she had heard in town by one of the more sickeningly sweet young women residents.

Her name had literally been "Mary Sue", if you could believe it. No joke.

Dean seemed to hesitate, glancing over to the lightly snoring giant of a man in his passenger seat.

Picking up on this codependent gesture, she immediately amended, "I swear not to wake your friend up. You won't even know I'm there."

Dean looked like he was going to rebut the implication that he was worried, but instead he grumbled, "Just hop in." He said this with a begrudging tone, but also an amused undertone. He sounded like a big brother.

She let out a very relieved laugh as she gently popped open the back door and quietly rearranged some of the bags they had that were in the way before taking a seat. She shut the door after her as gently as possible, and they were off.

The chorus of Stairway to Heaven had taken off, and she couldn't stop herself from humming along and drumming her knees almost inaudibly to the beat. It's what she did every time she heard it.

She noticed Dean doing the same, drumming to the beat upon the steering wheel.

"Good taste in music, I see," she commented casually, hoping for _some_ conversation. She liked Dean. She could tell he noticed she hadn't answered him, and she appreciated the fact that he didn't _completely_ buy her act.

Dean cracked a small grin at her in his rearview mirror and replied, "Same to you, Drake."

She returned the grin with her own before looking out the window to her left quietly, studying the dark woods.

"So, uh..." Dean started, leaning his left elbow against the windowsill and resting his head against his left palm, leaving his right to rest on his leg, his hand loosely at five o'clock. "Drake. You never answered my question. About why you're out here."

Ophelia pursed her lips, not _entirely_ used to being confronted, but unfaltering in her amiable act. "'Spose that's true..."

She opened her mouth to supposedly continue, when she acted distracted from the situation before her, to direct his attention to their established commonplace: Led Zeppelin.

"Wait, this is my favorite part!" Thank god she didn't have to lie about that. She sang along as she always did.

"'If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now, it's just a spring clean for the May queen'," she sang, perfectly emulating her voice to that of the lead singer's with no effort. She had grown up with this song.

As she continued to sing along, she went into her deadly-observant, nosy-detective mode. Her eyes flicked discreetly to Dean, seeing his suspicious but again begrudgingly amused expression in the mirror.

Her eyes moved on the the man, of which was still sleeping.

She then focused her peripherals on the backseat, studying their large duffel bangs. They were either on one long road trip, or... well, what else _is_ there?

She took in a deep, swift breath through her nose, continuing to sing, but now noticing the very evident that the old, lived-in car smell wasn't the only smell present. There was car grease, obviously, but also salt, and gunpowder.

Salt and gunpowder... Salt and gunpowder just happened to be the signature smell of a certain light blue vessel named Wanda.

She stopped singing almost immediately.

Were these two hunters?

At the jarring absence of her voice, Dean looked back at the surprised woman in his backseat.

"You alright there, Drake?"

All pretenses forgotten, she genuinely smirked up at his reflection in the mirror. This seemed to take Dean off-guard, as his posture stiffened and he looked instantly regretful.

Ophelia chuckled lightly, leaning back in her seat, propping her foot on the back of the front seat. She was genuinely happy now.

"Relax, Dean," she eased, still chuckling to herself, and easing out of her 'act'. "As for me, I've never been better." With a small pause, she questioned casually, "You here for the death of Abigail Bart, too?"

At Dean's silence, Ophelia lifted an eyebrow at him, lifting her eyes to the man in front of her. His expression seemed mixed between confused and angry.

 _Hm. Maybe not the best approach..._

 ** _Smile._**

She obeyed her thoughts, and an appeasing smile took place of her smirk. "Gunpowder and salt," she explained. "Telltale smell of a hunter," she chuckled softly.

Dean's dark eyes flicked between the unlit asphalt and her reflection in his rearview mirror for a moment. "Indeed it is..." He replied with a small, but growing smirk of his own. "You solo?"

Ophelia shook her head. "Nah. I travel with my dad, we took out the case here - roaming ghost - but... Uh," she searched for words, "We had a _spat_. So I started walkin'."

Dean bobbed his head in understanding.

Ophelia nodded to the snoring gargantuan, "Family, or...-"

"Family," Dean interrupted with finality, causing Ophelia to chuckle. "Gotcha," she said amiably.

After a moment of silence, Stairway to Heaven temporarily forgotten, she adjusted herself to sit on the edge of the seat, and she leaned forward, offering her hand again. "Ophelia Drake," she said quietly in consideration of the sleeping man to the right of her. "Happy to meet you Dean."

He returned the gesture somewhat haphazardly, transferring hands on the steering wheel again. "Dean Winchester," he replied. "The noisy sasquatch is Sam."

Ophelia attempted to suppress the laugh that bubble up her throat. Brothers, then.

"He's my-"

"Brother, yes. I understand," Ophelia allowed a throaty chuckle to escape. That unfortunately caused her to start coughing, as laughing aggravated her still raw throat.

She caught the sound with the hem of her shirt, and fire erupted up her throat, causing her to cough even more but thankfully muffled.

"You alright there?"

She tried to respond, waving her hand dismissively, but it only turned into a more violent cough. She had spoken too much, dammit.

Stopping any attempt to speak, she opted to stop breathing when Sam started to stir. The coughs started sounding like violent hiccups in her closed mouth, and she decided it didn't help anyone.

"You need water?" Dean sounded sarcastic in his attempt to help, and despite herself, it only amused Ophelia he even cared enough to ask. He seemed a kind of untrusting kind of guy.

Finally her coughing subsided. Against her better judgment, she straightened from her half-fetal position and grinned up at the mirror. "That'd be fantastic," she rasped out. She shouldn't have taken so many liberties. Her throat HURT. She coughed again.

Suddenly Dean leaned over to the passenger side and cracked open something, maybe a cooler, and a moment later a cold water bottle was tossed back to her.

She caught it expertly, opening it immediately, and gulping down as much as she dared at one time, she could physically feel the cool water slide down her throat.

Suddenly the sleeping one of the two - Sam - groaned loudly, alerting the two of his awakening and startled Ophelia as she was nearly decked in the face by the man stretching.

Groaning loudly again with his stretch, he yawned obnoxiously before shaking his head and rubbing his face

"We there yet, Dean?" He questioned groggily, scratching the back of his head.

Dean peaked up at his mirror, winked at Ophelia, and replied nonchalantly, "We're not needed anymore, Sammy."

Ophelia, albeit confusedly, got the hint and silently sank down below the seat, out of view. If Ophelia picked anything up from Dean's wink, it definitely was the single instant of a wicked smirk. And if he wanted to haze his brother, and she was happy to oblige.

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Sam questioned, obviously disorientated. "How long was I out?" He checked a watch under his plain brown jacket. "We shouldn't even be there yet, Dean."

"Oh, I know," Dean replied, clearing his throat discreetly. Instantaneous eye contact with her clued her to that that was probably her cue. "Picked up a hitchhiker."

Gracefully, she slipped up from her spot and leaned on the backrest beside Sam's left shoulder.

With confusion, Sam was preparing to shift to peer in the backseat, but met the sight of Ophelia grinning.

Forcing the rasp from her voice, she crooned almost seductively, "Mornin' sleepin' beauty."

All in a moment, Sam yelped and practically leapt in his seat to punch Ophelia in the face, but she effortlessly dodged his clumsy hit-easily seeing it coming-causing her to start laughing as hard as she dared with her pained throat.

Dean had been laughing since she slunk up the back of the seat, and Ophelia couldn't help but feel proud for making a new acquaintance laugh.

Sam, however, was wide-eyed and panicked. He kind of looked like a kicked puppy.

Seeing the likeness, Ophelia's laughed shifted to the "aw-haw-haaaw"'s one emits when a baby animal startles.

"I'm sorry," Ophelia practically giggled. "Dean instigated this."

Dean snorted dismissively, "Did not."

Sam just was trying to calm the hell down.

"Who the..." Sam stuttered. "Who the hell is th- who are you!"

Ophelia smiled softly, softening her voice for two reasons. "I'm Ophelia Drake, occupation: hunter of things that go 'bump' in the night." She offered an awkward right hand. "Salutations."

Sam stared at her hand, her face, and then Dean. Dean nodded discreetly, but Ophelia didn't miss it. She let it slide.

Sam's hand dwarfed her fairly large and slender hand as his enveloped hers. "Pleased to meet you," Sam replied, somewhat sarcastically, but not without humor.

Ophelia smiled brightly at the man, and returned to her seat, drinking more water.

 _We should almost be back to town_ , she thought with a furrowed brow. _How far did me and dad drive?_

 _Dad..._ Ophelia wondered if he even cared that she had run off...

She extracted her phone and checked her messages... Or lack thereof. She huffed and shoved the phone back in her pocket.

Of course he didn't.

Dean interrupted her brooding thoughts as he turned to beam a sarcastically condescending smile at Sam. "Ah, there we go! A sign," Dean sounded teasingly enthusiastic. Ophelia smiled at his comment, and studied Dean's profile, eyeing his sharp canine. "We're 'five miles from the homeliest town this side of the county!'"

Sam seemed to resent the fact that Dean's voice had adopted an annoying cutesy drawl as he read off the sign, but Ophelia just laughed distractedly from the back.

"Shut up," Sam grumbled, almost pouting. A subconscious gesture that Ophelia found somewhat endearing as he clichely folded his arms before him.

Ophelia grinned at the exchange before her, grateful for their banter as a distraction.

"Jerk," Sam muttered, looking away from Dean, out the window.

"Bitch," Dean replied, drawling out the 'I' hilariously.

Ophelia's face softened entirely, shoulders slack. Now, this was hitting too close to home...

 _"OAPHY!"_

 _Ophelia yelped and bent under the weight of the two children. She both loved and hated being tackled by two toddlers. A ten-year-old's body can only take so much._

 _"Oaphy!"_

 _"Stoopid, it is OPIE. Not 'Oaphy'."_

 _Ophelia grinned despite herself at how her younger_ _brother scolded their youngest sister._

 _Percy had accentuated every word, trying to inform the *mis*informed Helen that 'Oaphy' was a name NOT to be used._

 _Ophelia was touched._

 _"O, Perceval, my brave knight!" Ophelia exclaimed dramatically, sweeping the back of her had to her forehead. "Please, take mercy upon this poor fool! She doesn't understand the crime she hath committed!"_

 _"But its your NAME!" Percy rebutted stubbornly._

 _Ophelia sighed. Being stubborn was a Drake trait, through-and-through._

 _"Loser," she murmured softly, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately._

 _"Butt-face," he replied in the same manner, pushing her hand away to fix his hair._

"Opie? Ya there?"

Her head automatically shook out of the memory and her eyes darted around to find her father. Opie was the nickname he had dubbed her with. _Family_ used that name. Where was her father?

She only found Sam turned in his seat, staring concernedly at her and Dean taking long glances at her in his mirror.

"Who called me that," she muttered out, neither a question or a statement.

"I did," Dean replied unabashed.

Ophelia blinked twice.

She was going to open her mouth, say 'don't ever call me that again', but she couldn't.

"So, as I was saying..." Dean trailed off, looking at Ophelia carefully. "We're almost in town. Where's your motel? I'll drop you off there."

 _Mo...tel... We rented a motel room? Think..._

She shook her head again, _oh, yeah._

"Um..." As reached into her back left pocket and found her room key. "'Apple Betsy's Bed and Breakfast'," she rattled off as if she were pronouncing something foreign.

She finally noticed Sam was still looking at her, even if in his peripherals.

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm fine."

She stared out of the window, watching the first bit of the town's residential houses darting past them even as Dean slowed his speed as he turned down the main road.

As they pulled up to the motel, Ophelia got out and was ready to bid her farewells but Sam and Dean had climbed out of the car as well, to stay the night at "Apple Betsy's Bed and Breakfast".

She smiled and nodded a quick "be right back", and walked to her room to grab her stuff.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _There we have it. Chapter two! Yeaahh. Woo! Mm-hmm._

 _How are you guys liking it? Was it okay? Should I scrap it? Start over? Leave it? Be sure to tell me! I love feedback. :D_

 _Thank you for reading, and have a great day._


	3. Chapter Three

_**A/N:**_ _Hey guys! Okay, I don't think you guys that reviewed and followed this story understand just how much it means to me that you like this! You guys are awesome and I appreciate you so much! :')_

 _Anyway... Chapters should be coming out more regularly considering I've run out of my completely prewritten material, therefore no more excuses to procrastinate! How great is that? Heh._

 _I realized that I might need a disclaimer, so. HeH!_

 _I do not, in fact, OWN Supernatural, or Sam, or Dean. Why does that make me sad? NEVERMIND, obvious answer._

 _Without further adieu, the chapter!_

* * *

When she was all gathered, she paused helplessly, looking at all of her father's un-packed things.

Why wasn't he here yet?

He should've been. He should've been the first on the road. He would've passed her before Sam and Dean did.

The room seemed to close in on her, palms growing sweaty, hands trembling, and her breaths coming out in gasps. _Unless..._

" _Shit_ ," she hissed, forgetting all of her belongings in front of the hide-a-bed couch and bolting through the door, kicking the rock she had placed to stop the automatic closing mechanism.

The door whooshed behind her and slammed obnoxiously, but Ophelia didn't focus on that, she focused on the motorcycle she had seen at the edge of the motel parking lot the previous morning.

She vaguely noticed the calls of the two hunters she had just met, but she ignored them too.

She had left her father with that son of a bitch. She assumed it was a salt and burn. She assumed the house was the connection. Was she wrong?

 _Who cares! You left him there!_

She practically tackled the motorcycle and was in the process of hot-wiring it with a speed she didn't know she possessed, when she felt the biggest arms she ever felt in her life wrap themselves around her waist and lift.

Panicked by the situation, and definitely panicked by the contact, she lashed out like a tantruming five-year-old. She kicked out her legs and dug her strong nails wickedly into the sleeved arms of her assailant.

The grunt of the man beneath her after her right leg successfully caught his hip startled her to reality to catch herself before the arms left her completely to drop onto the pavement.

She still stumbled to the ground pathetically and frantically looked up.

"Sam?!" She exclaimed, watching the behemoth breathing heavily as he looked down at her, wide-eyed.

"What the hell is your deal!" Dean responded for him, jogging up to Sam's left.

"I-" she coughed. Running - bad idea. "I have to go back!" She cried, her voice hoarse.

The brothers shared a brief glance, and she appreciated the worry she spotted in the gazes, but she was wasting time.

"Go back..." Dean prompted, moving his hand in a circular 'go on...' gesture.

Ophelia was getting increasingly more flustered, and more standoffish.

She needed. To go.

"I-" she interrupted herself and took a deep breath. "We didn't finish. The case here. I left him before knowing."

Sam looked slightly confused, whereas Dean seemed to catch on to what she was saying. "How do you even know?" He asked, a perplexed expression taking over his features.

"Call it a gut feeling," she muttered, agitatedly shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"What did you call it earlier?" Dean questioned suddenly. "A roaming spirit, right?"

Ophelia nodded quickly, damning Dean for taking his damn time figuring things out. Although, she knew it wasn't on purpose. "All of the chicks this spirit has been picking off have black hair, right? Is that why your throat is all-uh-" he gestured lazily towards his own throat, "Irritated?"

Ophelia huffed once more, crossing her arms defensively - offended for no reason other than embarrassment. These questions so far were meaningless. She needed to leave! "No," she curtly answered, lying through her teeth. She didn't had time to explain. "Now, please..." She gestured to the rather impressive Harley, " _May I_?"

Dean smirked at her biting tone, but only shook his head. "While I'm not above stealing, I'm pretty sure stealin' the loudest thing here isn't a good idea." He and Sam shared another look. "We'll drive you."

"No, absolutely not," she responded immediately, turning to the bike. She was interrupted when Dean's hand clamped on her shoulder and had her face the two of them again.

"Look," his voice was stern, taking Ophelia by surprise. Her eyebrows furrowed defensively as his grip moved from her shoulder to her toned bicep. "If this ghost isn't bound to anything, that means some bad 's' is going the 'f' down here. The last thing you should do is corner yourself off from help."

Sam looked between the two of them, wide-eyed. Dean and Ophelia were silent, their gazes were practically level, as Ophelia was at least a half inch shorter than Dean, and they glared intently at each other until Ophelia finally averted her eyes.

Ophelia blinked in mild shock at herself. She always gave off an intimidating air when agitated like this, and yet _she_ was the one looking away!

" _Fine_ ," she literally growled, ripping her arm away from Dean with a savage amount of strength that made Dean stagger slightly forwards with surprise. "But I swear to God, if you so much as stall at ONE stop sign, I will plunge this knife," she gripped the handle of the buoy knife on her belt tightly, "SO far up your ass, _I'll_ be the one driving!"

As she stormed to Dean's Impala, the brothers shared a wide-eyed glance.

"Well," Dean sighed. "This should be interesting..."

"You don't think her dad's in danger?" Sam asked as they followed the woman to the car.

Dean shook his head. "I don't know _that,_ but I do know that if she was the one attacked, her father's at least alive."

"That's shaky logic, Dean," Sam pointed out, lowering his voice as they came closer to the impala.

"Well," Dean replied, gripping the driver door's handle as Sam circled around. "Here's to hope."

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _I am so sorry it's such a short chapter! But I have a lot of school work to do._

 _For my American Sign Language class, the final project is to make a ten (or so) minute video about a movie or show of your choice, and me and my friend chose genderbent Supernatural! Mwhahaha! I wrote the script and now the whole group is Glossing, which means the sentence structure is literally the signs. For example, if you write a sentence that says, "Are you crazy or something? We can't do that, it's suicide," the gloss would be (in caps, idk why...) "YOU CRAZY? WE CAN'T, IT SUICIDE". It's ugly and gross, but hey, at least there subtitles that are going to be the actual script. Glossing is gonna be taking a whole week, so HUZZAH. -kill me-_

 _Hah, I just wanted to share that with you guys. Sorry for making such long Author's Notes! :P_

 _Thank you for reading! And have a great day! :)_


	4. Chapter Four

_**A/N:**_ _Hey guys! Sorry it's been a bit. :P_

 _So, hey, I've been looking up pictures of buoy knives, and I've had a lot of conflict in choosing the one I thought would be Ophelia's... Until I found out that a particularly badass looking type of buoy knife is called a "Winchester" buoy knife._

 _Needless to say, I think I HAVE to make that be her knife._

 _They're beautiful knives, by the way, you should check 'em out. xD_

 _Anyway!_

 _I do not own Supernatural, though I wish I did, and I only own Ophelia and her family, and the idea of Wanda._

 _If I_ _owned_ _a car like that, I'd be the coolest kid on the block._

* * *

The Impala sounded eerily quiet as they drove down the road. The roads in town had been empty, allowing Dean to avoid Ophelia's wrath by rushing past any stop signs.

By now, they were half way there, the twenty minutes in the car high-strung solely because of the woman in the back seat.

Sam would've attempted some kind of conversation, but each time he opened his mouth, it felt as though the air was sucked out of his lungs. He was content to staying silent with the two brooding hunters alongside him.

* * *

"Here," was the only word Ophelia had the strength to say.

She had an odd twist in her stomach that crawled up to her throat and pulled down at the corners of her mouth. This was a feeling she had been steadily ignoring since they took off from the parking lot. The feeling was not unfamiliar to her, but it had been a while since she felt it so strongly.

It was guilt, fear, and sorrow all welled up into one emotion that meant if she spoke, the only words to come out would be unattractive sobs.

So only one word was spoken.

The car swerved carefully as the hunter at the wheel turned the car smoothly to the half-hidden road leading to the abandoned shack.

The feeling in Ophelia's gut was only intensifying, but she kept silent and ignored it.

The Impala's engine cut off a moment after the shack came into view, but that was of little importance to Ophelia.

With speed she didn't know she had, she shoved the door open swiftly and scrambled out, leaving the door open behind her.

Wanda wasn't there. Where Wanda was, her father was, but neither were there.

Ophelia, running on adrenaline now, sprinted around the shack, spotting the bags of salt she had been ripped away from spread across the dirty ground.

She raced into the shack, heedless of the calls from the taller of the two hunters.

In retrospect, the entire day was one big fuck up... Pardon the French.

First, the Drakes' argument. Second, the force choking. Third, the second Drakes' argument. Fourth, separating from her father. And lastly...

Separating from the Winchesters.

The moment she had done so, she felt that intense anxious feeling she had earlier tonight. That itch that set your back ramrod straight.

She ignored it this time, mistaking it for her agitation at not finding her father.

Turns out, that itch was Darth Ghosty himself.

The moment she slammed into the shack, the pungent musty smell of rotting wood invaded her senses and she gagged.

She was looking at the charred remains of an unidentifiable object on the small wood-burning stove in the corner, and the next thing she saw was blood-shot eyes and a snarling, pale face with disheveled hair dripping down greasily on the scarred forehead of the man haunting this town.

Before she could scream, yelp, or make any other sound of alarm, his gnarled up ghost hands wrapped around her throat.

He didn't speak, but his expression said everything.

 _"Not again,"_ his expression vowed. _"Not getting away again."_

She fought the only way she could in her situation; desperately swinging one of her iron ring-clad hands through the image of the ghost. While usually that would work enough to distract any other ghost, this one had a vendetta, and he didn't care about her puny iron rings.

He did mind, however, when Sam practically materialized behind him and swung a tire iron like a baseball bat, technically decapitating the ghost, forcing it to disappear.

Ophelia fell to the ground - _she had been_ _off_ _the ground?_ \- and let out a few rattling coughs.

She was so done being manipulated like a rag doll by this asshole...

"Ophelia!" Sam exclaimed, helping her up hastily. "You good?"

Ophelia nodded once, coughing, as she set off into her deductive mode, tuning Sam's further inquires out as her mind raced.

She thought she was right. Hell, she _knew_ she was right when she deducted this shack being the source of this asshole. She was convinced whatever he was tied to would be here!

 _Wait..._ Why did it have to be an item? She hadn't expected this to be a troubling case, and she skipped over the most important detail when looking to kill a ghost.

" _Idiot!_ " She savagely growled to herself, ripping tire iron from Sam's hand.

Just as Dean bounded into the shack, Ophelia swung the tire iron, plunging it into the weak floorboards. She did this three times, making a satisfactory hole in the floor.

"Uh...?" Dean began, but Sam shook his head, suddenly understanding what Ophelia was getting at.

"You didn't check for cremation before coming here?" Sam questioned anxiously, not thinking to bite his remark back. The ghost would be re-materializing anytime now.

The look Ophelia sent Sam took him aback, and he grunted heavily as she handed the tire iron back to him by thumping it into his abdomen.

" _Apparently not_." She gritted out. "Hold this."

With that, she practically dove into the minimal hole she had made. There was barely any room for her, the length from the wood of the floor to the dirt beneath the shack hardly the length of the space from bed from the ground, but she made do.

The shack was small in square footage, and she found the remains easily from where she lay, with the help of her lighter. "Dean!" She called out. "Get one of those salt bags from outside!"

She heard quick departing steps, and the shuffling of Sam as he surely was cautiously guarding her back.

In the moment of silence, she appreciated him being there.

Not that she'd admit that out loud.

She was brought back to the present when she heard the combination of approaching running steps from outside and Sam charging forward and swinging the iron with a small grunt of effort.

"Where is it!" Dean called out, the adrenaline of the situation causing him to shout, rather than the actual need to be heard.

"It should be a foot from the door and to the right at least two!" She replied in the same manner.

Suddenly, the tire iron crashed through almost precisely where she needed it to be. She jolted when the contact was made, but smirked. She liked these guys.

Taking out a matchbook from her jacket pocket, she waited till the grains of rock salt poured through the floor to strike it.

When she threw the match, the flame sparked green in the darkness of the underbelly of the shack.

Instantly, Ophelia relaxed, and rested her forehead on her forearm, ignoring the horrible smell of the dirt below her.

The moment was interrupted when she coughed, something in her throat rattling, but needless to say, she was relieved it was over. "You okay down there, Ope?" Dean called down.

She somehow maneuvered herself to her side and slid herself so that her top half could emerge from the floor. When she did so, she coughed again, the sound not as rattle-ey, but painful nevertheless. She became lightheaded suddenly, and buried her forehead onto her palm.

She sat there, resting her forehead in her hand, in the hole in the floor of an abandoned hunting shack on the outskirts of the Wisconsin wilderness. The adrenaline drained from her blood quickly and the absurdity of the entire night fell upon her.

Sam and Dean shared a side glance as the woman in the floor burst into near-hysterical giggles.

She brought her forehead from her palm and looked to the two of them, her porcelain teeth shimmering in the moonlight from outside as she laughed up at them.

"We must've passed my dad in town," she giggled harder, the tensing of her stomach brought her forward and she laughed into the dusty, splintering floorboards.

She reclined, and sighed contently. "What a fuckin' night," she stated sardonically. She carefully started to lift herself from the floor, startling slightly when the hand of Sam appeared before her.

She blinked at the appendage, then judged she needed it. She gripped it and slid her legs under her as Sam used his strength to pull her up.

She was right to grab onto his hand, for as she lifted a foot from the hole and meant to place it onto the floor, her equilibrium completely spun in circles and she wobbled, nearly toppling over.

She groaned, closing her eyes. She didn't even notice that Sam had grabbed her opposite arm's bicep to steady her.

She was so lightheaded, it ached. Her temple throbbed and she could feel her heartbeat in the tips of her ears.

"I repeat," she heard Dean. "You okay, Ope?"

"Yeah," she muttered, opening her eyes, and shaking her head at the wavering world around her. She chuckled again. "I sound like a chain-smoker of twenty years. Gross."

She realized heavy amount of contact with her body when Sam chuckled slightly.

She felt her face heat up self-consciously and cleared her throat nodding to say she was alright. Sam helped her out of the hole and let go her, but Ophelia noticed he stayed close to her, just in case.

The three hunters shared a silent look of content, all subconsciously realizing they worked together well.

Interrupting the silence, Dean spoke. "Shall we?" He said, motioning to the door.

All nodded in consent and with that, they were on the road.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _So yeah! Yay. I like this chapter. xD_

 _I'd like to clarify that Ophelia isn't insane, but she definitely isn't 100%. Hence her giggle fest._

 _Her backstory will be provided in flashbacks, I think, as I really don't like the cliche, "Oh! Okay. Here's my entire life's story, love interest" thing that happens so much. It doesn't seem natural to me._

 _Anyway, I was reading through my previous chapters and I spotted a crap-ton of small little grammatical errors and stuff, so I just want to apologize in advance for the little "had"s where "have"s go, and any other awkward mistakes._

 _I apparently don't proofread well enough. xD_

 _Thank you to Sandy for reviewing! I'm glad you want more, I'll be glad to give it. x) And thank you for your compliment! :D_


	5. Chapter Five

**_A/N:_** _Had to get this chapter out. x)_

 _Brought to you by skittles and homework-procrastination!_

 _No own me Supernatural, blah blah blah._

 _Wait, real quick, there's cussing in this story, but this is probably the only chapter that's going to have so much so close together. Sometimes cussin' is necessary._

* * *

She awoke with a gasp, the first thing her clear eyes seeing was the smooth painted ceiling she grew up with.

 _ **No...**_

She was lying down, her body twisted in a way that made her legs tingle.

She sat up as carefully as she could without further straining the muscles in her legs.

"Mom?" She called out.

 _ **No...**_

"Percy?" She tried again.

 _ **No...**_

She had begun to move, walking through her room in the bungalow she and her family lived in.

" _Dad?!_ " She called, getting frantic.

Did they leave her? Was she dreaming?

 _ **No...!**_

She left her room, using the wall to support her weight as the world started to spin and she felt lightheaded.

" _Mom?!_ " Her voice had become shrill and cracked in her urgency.

She stumbled through the hallway, looking in both of her siblings' rooms, calling their names as she did.

She couldn't find anyone.

She was approaching her parents' room at the end of the hallway when she was ripped from the wall by rough hands.

 _ **No!**_

"Not there, kid," the voice chuckled. She turned and saw her family's friend Thomas. Thomas was the guy that handed the offering plate to each pew row...

With an odd smile, Thomas redirected her towards the living room, out of the hallway of bedrooms.

"We'll wait for daddy out here, 'kay?" Thomas said, offering no room to argue.

"What-?" She tried to turn to look at the bedroom, but Thomas roughly manhandled her head forward.

She whimpered at this rough contact, and Thomas shushed her like a crying baby.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Me and you, we're just gonna wait for daddy to get home, and when he does, we're gonna play a little joke on him."

He was speaking like he was entertaining a five year old as he went in front of her and knelt to get eye-level.

Thomas's eyes were horrible, nightmarishly all black, but she blinked and they were brown again.

She didn't know what that meant, exactly, but she had enough of an inkling to recognize that Thomas wasn't himself.

"Want to hear the joke?"

His voice startled her, and she nodded numbly.

"First, we're gonna pretend that we weren't expecting him. Okay? Then, you're gonna hold my hand like a good little girl when we all go looking for her. Okay? We have a surprise for him, me and your momma."

She stared wide-eyed at him, studying his expression and not recognizing the nice young man she used to admittedly be smitten with.

He winked and ruffled her hair, and she flinched making him laugh at her.

He was about to sit on their couch when she gathered her courage and asked where her brother and sister were.

He resumed sitting with a mockingly thoughtful expression. He tossed his head from one side to the other in contemplation and then said, "With your mom. " And winked with an animalistic grin.

She felt repulsed.

It felt like a very long time till her dad got home, and by the time he did, _Thomas_ had decided she should sit on his lap.

She felt like crying as his rough hand settled on her shoulder, making her lean back into him. It felt like he was dirtying her with just a single touch.

When the door slammed open, she jumped, but Thomas's hand clamped down on her shoulder. She almost whimpered, but with a simple scathing look she shut up.

" _Rebecca!_ " Her dad's voice shouted. He sounded panicked.

" _Ope!_ " He called again. Thomas's hand found her mouth and he shook his head.

" _Percy!_ " He shouted. " _Helen!_ "

He called those four names over and over as she traced his steps going from the garage, through the kitchen, through the dining room and finally halting violently as he entered the living room.

She started trembling at her father's expression, which was a mix of horror, fear, and such a fierce anger that she felt like she was going to cry all over again. This _was_ serious.

"How's it goin' William?" Thomas asked conversationally, though with a threatening undertone. "We weren't expecting you! Were we, _Ophelia_?"

He lifted the hand off of her mouth, and smirked at her shudder.

"Stop touching her!" He snapped. "Where is my family, you _fucking_ bastard," her father growled with a ferocity she didn't know him capable of, speaking with language she had never heard him use before.

Thomas legitimately burst out cackling like a movie villain. It was rough and cruel and she felt almost like she was betraying her father just by being seated on the man's lap.

She looked to her father pleadingly, but his eyes were focused with fury on the laughing man behind her.

Thomas sobered abruptly and motioned to her, stated monotonously, "Right here, you murdering piece of shit."

Her dad's eyes fluttered worriedly to her, but then he seemed to cease breathing. " _All_ of them, Damon," he warned lowly, growling like a wolf.

Thomas - Damon? - turned to her, ignoring her father, and asked patronizingly, "Ready to play our game?" He roughly manhandled her head to say yes with both hands, making her cry out in surprise.

He cackled harshly, snagging her hand and stood abruptly.

"Where could your mommy be, _Precious_?" He asked as if hosting Blues Clues, bringing his hand up to his forehead as if blocking the sun as he "searched" the living room.

Her dad was fuming, and followed immediately when Thomas dragged her back to the bedroom hallway and into the master bedroom...

 _ **NO!  NO, NO, NO!**_

* * *

She woke up with a harsh and silent intake of air.

Her senses were met with the felt ceiling of the Impala, a rock song softly playing on the radio, and then the pleasant rocking of a car that had no doubt lulled her to sleep.

She was used to the nightmares, but this one had been oddly vivid... She was just grateful that after a lifetime of interrupting the dream too late, she had succeeded in avoiding the final images of the dream. And had done so without screaming.

She hated it, as it haunted her practically every night, but sometimes she needed that dream, she had decided. It helped her focus on her end goal.

Besides never allowing herself the luxury of trust since Thomas, her heart gained a hole. One that yearned for revenge.

She grew up hearing her pastor mother preachings, always teaching of love, of sacrifice and of forgiveness... But how to you forgive such evil? How do you love the "neighbor" that murdered your family? Perhaps that preaching didn't count for Damon... a demon that had soaked her family in their own blood... How do you not crave revenge?

"Revenge is not the way," her mother had always taught. Ophelia tried for so long to believe her mother, to follow her mother's word... but sometimes you _need_ to right a wrong.

She didn't think she had the strength to do anything, however. A lifetime with her over-cautious father brought her to that judgement of herself.

But she'd be damned if she died without Damon dying first.

* * *

 **A/N:** _OH-EM-GEE, GUYS, I'M INCORPORATING THE SUMMARY! Oy. xD_

 _It's so unoriginal, like, crap, but I think it's a very justified cause to seek revenge for an entire family. And I'm sorry about the similarities in dead parents, but I felt a mother/daughter bond would've been a more dramatic loss. Especially when I'm gonna be establishing how attached the two were._

 _It would've made a compelling story to have a mother/daughter hunting team, now that I think about it... But yeah... Dammit. -sighs dejectedly-_

 _Just gonna finish my homework now... xD_


	6. Chapter Six

_**A/N:**_ _Whoa, hey! Long time no see. xD_

 _So, this chapter is slightly trippy... Kinda... More like "confusing". Read everything CAREFULLY! :D Also, a LOT of swears._

 _Emotional chapter, so... I hope ya don't O-phelia emotions! ;D Heh. Heh heh. Hah._

 _horrible puns..._

 _I do not own Supernatural!_

* * *

 _Rrrrrrr-chik..._

"Answer..." She muttered to herself.

 _Rrrrrrr-chik..._

She pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration.

 _Rrr-chik!_

Her fingers fell from her nose as the tone was interrupted. She held her breath waiting for his gruff greeting.

 _Rrrrrrr-chik..._

She gave out a restrained groan, and clenched her jaw.

Sam peered back at her when her head thumped against her seat. "I'm sure he's fine, Ophelia," he assured.

Ophelia's head lifted when Sam said her name, and she studied him to see sincerity in his concern.

She was surprised to find it.

As her father's gruff voicemail message droned, she cocked her jaw in annoyance only to hear Sam chuckle at the expression on her face.

The sound of his laugh made Ophelia resist the urge to grin.

She was agitated. She didn't _want_ to _laugh_.

She sighed heavily and set down her phone. "It's not that I'm worried he's dead or some shit. I just need to know where he is."

It was Dean's turn to chuckle, grabbing Ophelia's attention from Sam.

"That's family bonds for ya..." He joked.

Ophelia bit back a retort, turning to face the window. Her jaw was becoming site from being clenched...

"There _has_ to be a story behind that," Dean practically prompted, peering at her through the rearview mirror.

"Obviously there could be, but who the hell said it was any of your business?" Ophelia immediately snapped, turning to look at the man ahead of her with fire in her eyes.

Dean only chuckled again, causing Ophelia to restrain from punching the back of his head.

"My apologies, Opie," he said raising his freehand in surrender. "Just askin'."

She just shook her head and huffed. Looking out of the window to her left, she tried to ignore Sam's imploring eyes watching her.

She sighed heavily, fogging the glass.

 _Calm the hell down, you sack of ungrateful shit_ , she berated herself. _These guys helped you, and you haven't done shit to repay them but snap at them._

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, suddenly feeling guilty. "I just met you guys, so fair warning: I get snappy."

Dean shook his head, peering up at the mirror. "No need to apologize, Opie. Me and Sammy understand daddy issues."

Ophelia couldn't help but chuckle at him. What added to the humor of the moment was Sam's side-glare at Dean's terminology.

Ophelia rested her head once again against the back of her seat. The leather was so comfortable, and the bumps of the road so soothing... She slipped her eyes closed.

"Try calling again, Ophelia," Sam suddenly suggested with a small smile and a long glance in her direction.

She huffed again, picking up the phone that was somehow in her lap.

She flipped it open, staring at her textual background. The words spelling out:

 _"An Eye For An Eye,_  
 _A Tooth For A Tooth_  
 _And Anyway I Told The Truth, And I'm Not Afraid To Die"_

With another, but slightly madder sigh, she held the number one on her keypad, bringing it up to her ear.

 _Rrrrrerererr-*chik*_

Why did it sound garbled...?

 _Rrrrrererer-*chik*_

Furrowing her brow, she pulled the phone from her ear to check the screen.

"Dad" shone up at her from the screen, and dismissing the unease in her gut, she placed the cancer-machine (as her father so thoughtfully called phones) back against her ear.

 _Rrrrrerere-*chi*-_

" _Oh-fuckin'-phelia?!_ " A voice bellowed with obviously feigned surprise.

Not her father. _Not_ her father. _NOT_ her _FATHER_.

"Who the _flying fuck_ is this," she growled in the receiver, gaining two pairs of concerned eyes.

" _Oh, you probably don't recognize the new voice, huh?_ " The voice casually asked, as if he were talking about a new haircut.

" _The meatsuit's name was probably Reginald or some shit judging by how he dresses. Sad, ugly sweater vests and some ancient spectacles. You'd hate it. But he has the cuh-yew-test accent, though! Glad I picked him._ "

Ophelia felt physically sick. It sounded like the owner of the motel.

"Damon," she breathed, so close to hyperventilating, so close to crying.

 _No!_ She fumed. _No, no, no! He is the only fucking one I have!_

"You fucking son of a bitch... WHERE is my dad!" Her voice was trembling with pure rage.

" _Aw, dah wittle baby gonna cwy?_ " Damon mocked in a baby voice. " _Boo-fuckin'-hoo, princess. Your daddy's fine for now. Just checkin' in on you for 'im._ "

There was a small pause, until he spoke again. " _Why is your room empty, sweetheart? Ya forgot your luggage_ ," he chided. She could hear the whoosh of his breath and thumps of - no doubt - her bags being kicked.

"Ophelia...?" Came Sam's voice, but she tuned it out. She tuned out the sound of him turning around and she tuned out both of them, stopping her brain from focusing on anything besides Damon.

" _OoOoh!_ " Damon suddenly girlishly squealed. " _Who was thaAat! Your boOoyfriend?_ "

Suddenly dead serious, Damon drawled, " _You know I'm gonna have to kill whoever you're with, sweet-cheeks._ "

Ophelia opened her mouth to answer, opened her mouth to tell him to eat shit, but nothing came out.

" _HelloOo?_ " Damon singsonged. " _You're probably having an stroke or something right now, aren't you, baby?_ "

Ophelia was frozen, her face suddenly blank.

 _After chasing this fucker for so long, he turns around and suddenly the hunt_ _ers_ _are the hunt_ _ed_ _..._

" _Realizing your whole little world is crumbling down, little girl?_ " He jeered smugly. " _Realizing you're dead meat?_ "

At her silence, he cackled. " _Good. Know that this is going to happen. Know that this is going to be a reality, kid._ _ **Expect it**_ _. I'm tired of trying to shoo you two flies from my work._ "

It was then that it registered to Ophelia what Sam had said.

 _"Oh... She fell asleep again."_

 _"Cute," Dean chuckled._

* * *

She woke up with a barely restrained gasp.

She bolted upright, hugging herself to prevent herself from lashing out and punch anything.

"Just in time, sleepin' beauty," Dean chuckled to himself. He must've not seen her panicked expression.

Sam did though, and the stare he leveled her startled the shit out of her when she glanced over only to see him facing her entirely with an intense gaze and a furrowed brow.

Immediately she avoided eye contact.

She hated herself for loosing her confidence - loosing her calm in front of them.

It was humiliating.

At least Sam didn't say anything.

When they pulled into the motel parking lot, Ophelia felt a massive weight lift from her heart when she spotted Wanda.

She was desperate to get out of the car, the backseat making her feel increasingly emotional and claustrophobic.

But she forced herself to be still. She forced her shoulders back, avoiding the cowardly self-protection-hunch position they had been in. She crossed her arms stubbornly.

In her desperation to appear alright, she failed to notice Sam watching her collect herself.

Ophelia felt her brain melt away as she focused solely on keeping her poise.

When they all emptied from the Impala, Ophelia offered a distracted "see you later", and rushed as calmly as she could to her room.

In a fluid movement, she lifted the key from her back left pocket and inserted it into the keyhole of the door.

Opening it as quickly as she dared and bolted in.

When she closed the door behind her, she was met with her bags scattered around the entrance way and her father looking up with surprise.

"Thought you took off again, kid," he admitted quietly.

She bolted to her father, wedging herself into her father's unopen arms.

Startled, he awkwardly rested his arms across her back.

The unexpected discomfort of the action caused her to start sobbing.

"What the hell..." She heard her father mutter confusedly, trying what little he could to comfort her. Rubbing her back didn't help, and squeezing tighter made her sob harder.

" _Ophelia_..." She heard.

She looked up, and was startled to see the aged ceiling of the Impala.

She looked around, confused and disoriented, to see Dean giving her the quirked "you okay" eyebrow from outside her window. Sam was stretching a few feet away from the car on the passenger side, towards where their room must have been.

She shook her head clear, angry at nothing but herself and exited the car.

She was tired. Very tired.

"Ope!" Dean called suddenly.

Startled, she turned around, a nod to prompt him to continue.

"Is this goodbye?" His smile seemed greasy, and a little bit fake. He was flirting, was he?

She stared confused at the man by the Impala, and she found it within herself to smirk.

"Not yet, cowboy."

She turned and unlocked her room.

She was greeted by an entirely dark room, save for the one lamp in-between the beds. There was a piece of paper.

 _Ophelia,_

 _I love you._  
 _I haven't shown it too good, I know. But I know we share a fucked up version of love for each other._  
 _You've grown up so well. You've become a hard-assed, beautiful woman right in front of me._  
 _You're mom would be proud, Ope. Maybe not of the life I threw you too, but definitely of who you are._  
 _I'm getting too old for this shit, baby girl. And I want to be with her again._

 _Wanda was meant for you. Your mother said how she couldn't wait to see her grandkids in the backseat, your husband at the wheel, and you with at his side._  
 _I kinda fucked that up, but do her a favor and try to fix it._

 _I know I'm a fucked up asshole for leaving you like this, we were all we had, and now I'm leaving you._  
 _But I couldn't imagine a situation where you'd let me go off and do this without shooting me in the leg or some shit._

 _I raised you crooked, but I like to think I raised you morally right at the very least._

 _I'm not afraid to die._

 _I love you Opie. I'll say hello to your old choppah, and momma and the gang for you._

She had sunk to the floor, the loose sheets of the motel notepad spread around her knees and she couldn't breath.

She raised a trembling hand to her mouth, pressing her hand against it so hard it hurt, trying not to make a sound.

Her eyes were overflowed with tears, and they fell down her cheeks and onto her arms.

She couldn't hear herself, or else she would have stopped breathing to prevent the whimpers and gasps emitting from her throat.

The sobs were pained and panicked, almost sounding like a terrified child.

So many questions she wanted to ask, but only one answer would be her response.

 _Gone._

No take-backs, no _halfsies_. She had one answer now, and no matter how much she wanted it to be different, the more she asked, the more the answer stayed the same.

 _Dead._

Her face fell blank, tears still running over her eyes and down her face. She was hyperventilating, and she was getting light-headed.

She couldn't reclaim her breathing, but her face was impassive.

He was dead. And he didn't care.

Her face twisted grotesquely with every single emotion she carried... and she _moaned_.

She moaned from physical pain in her stomach; guilt. The guilt that eating itself out of her body.

She moaned from the physical pain of her heart fluttering, off-beat.

She moaned from the pure physical pain of pure _grief_.

She didn't hear the two quiet knocks on the door and she didn't hear his voice calling her name confused. She didn't see him run towards her, cradling her heavy head in his large hand. She didn't see him notice the note papers littering the ground, and she didn't feel him picking her up and placing her on the bed she was half leaning against.

She didn't feel herself attach herself to him, whispering curses and gasping at the weight of the guilt that had plunged back down on her chest.

Sam gently repositioned himself so that he could comfortably sit and allow her to... _break down_ on him.

As he felt her entire body quake with hoarse sobs, he stared down at the note, reading what words he could from his distance from the floor.

When Dean peeked into the opened door casually with a beer in his hand, he became alert immediately and barged into the room.

"What the hell?!" Dean exclaimed quietly. "We leave this broad for ten minutes... What happened!"

Sam just looked up at Dean with a distressed 'bitchface' and just nodded to the scattered notepad papers spread across the floor.

Dean gave the trembling woman a weary but concerned glance and set his beer on the night stand.

After he picked up the papers, he sat across from Sam on the bed closest to the door, shuffling the papers in what he considered the order - double-sided one first, half-page last.

As he read through it, the expression of weary concern became disbelief.

He wordlessly shared a heavy look with Sam, and they both silently looked down and the woman huddled into Sam's side inside his jacket.

Dean cleared his throat quietly, and looked to Sam again.

"Well, this _sucks ass_ ," he said hoarsely.

But Sam recognized the seriousness behind his brother's words.

He couldn't find anything to respond with, so he simply answered, " _Yeah_."

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _Did you feel the feels? I mean, I kinda did. Cuz I didn't plan on killing him off so soon. :|_

 _I just wrote and wrote, and then BOOM, I accidently made the death happen. Woooo... *facepalm*_

 _On another note, HI! How ya doin'... Good? Good, good..._

 _I'm so sorry it took so long to update! D: I procrastinate writing ever since I started an account on this site, so that's amazing._

 _I promise I'll try to write more._

 _Oh, also! There's going to be a new cover image for this story, and I wanna clarify that I don't know who the chick is, and it isn't mine! I just wrote the *NEW AND IMPROVED* title and badda-bing, cover image. So. Yeah. I don't claim ownership of a chick I don't know's face. Promise._

 _Anyway, I hope you enjoyed (kinda), and have a great day! :)_


	7. Chapter Seven

_**A/N: Did I say I'd write more? LoL, I meant less. *facepalm***_

* * *

Her eyelids all of a sudden flickered open, and she could see the ceiling of the Impala again.

The car was lolling to a stop.

She lifted her head to see she _was_ in the Impala... That Dean was turning the key out of the ignition, and Sam was stretching.

She watched the brothers get out of the car.

She heard Dean ask if her father was here, glancing at what he assumed was Wanda.

She heard herself respond that her father was gone, tonelessly and void of any emotion.

To be honest, she felt like a specter. She felt as though her actions were not her own. She felt she was just there to oversee what her body did. She watched herself depart the silently baffled men and make her way to her room.

She opened the door, and stopped at the threshold looking in the room, almost hopeful.

Hoping it would look different.

Hoping he would be there and say, " _Thought you took off again, kid_ ".

Hoping she could hug him for the first time since she was _thirteen_.

 _Hoping against hope_ that she could've had the chance to tell him she _loved_ him.

Taking a large breath, she felt her feet become lead. She didn't want to walk into the room.

She reluctantly closed the door behind her and took a single step into their room.

Her eyes made immediate contact with the note, right where she had previously found it - under the only lit lamp in the room, placed there as neatly as possible.

Then, all she did was stare at it.

She could just make out his grammatical mistakes from here. The "you're" and the "too", despite the mess of his large, strong scrawling handwriting. She could see the words "I'm not afraid to die" clearly, as they were in their own paragraph, separated from the other words.

It was hard to discern how long she had been staring at it, but she jumped out of her staring contest when two soft knocks at her heavy door echoed in the dull, empty room.

She turned and opened the door slightly, greeted by the hulking figure of Sam.

"Yeah?" she greeted tonelessly.

"Uh," was Sam's response. "I-We... What do you mean your by saying your father's gone?"

She held up a finger, left the door, and b-lined to the two-page note.

She didn't read it. She hardly wanted to _touch_ it, but she grabbed the papers and stared at them again, anyway.

She was stood between the two beds, rooted to her spot, staring.

She decided she needed to see the words again...

She took a small, stammering breath and forced herself to focus on the words in her hand.

 _"I love you."_

 _"I'm not afraid to die."_

She hadn't realized she had held her breath until she felt her nose flare as her lungs swiftly took in a breath.

She looked up and her eyes connected immediately with Sam's.

He stared back, wide-eyed, silent, and obviously very confused.

With another deep breath, she calmly walked towards the giant and grabbed his wrist.

She roughly placed the two pages into his open hand and crunched his fingers over the papers, causing the note to crumple.

"Take it," she said roughly. The desperation in her tone was obvious, though. "I don't need it."

She gave Sam a light push and nodded to the door of her room, refusing to relive the previous version of this moment - collapsed, weak, and sobbing like some lost child in front of him.

So she sent Sam away, she shut the door, and then she sat on the bed her dad often chose on hunts - the one closest to the door - and wept.

* * *

"Well, this _sucks_ _ass_..." Dean said in disbelief, his beer on their nightstand, and Sam sitting across from him.

" _Yeah_ ," Sam replied thickly.

The brothers shared a heavy silence.

It seemed like a long silence before Dean spoke.

"Should we give this back to her, or..."

Sam couldn't answer - he didn't _know_. "She told me to take it," he replied with a small shrug.

"But, hold on..." Dean began, changing subjects as it occurred to him, "Wait, how did she know he was 'gone'-," he airquoted, "-before even stepping into the damn room?"

Sam looked off to the side for a moment, almost considering if he should tell Dean about what he noticed in the car.

"She... She seemed to nod off and wake back up - like - three times," Sam admitted. "The second time it happened, though, she looked like she had seen a ghost. You didn't see it, but she looked like she was about to cry."

Dean only looked at Sam like that was ridiculous.

"Sammy, I don't think that-"

"No, listen to me, Dean..." Sam interrupted. He hesitated, though, not wanting to bring up his visions to Dean again.

"I... It looked like she was waking up from... well, visions."

Dean became very still, very quickly, and stared at Sam.

"Is she one of 'em?" he asked very seriously, his eyes unblinking. "One of Azazel's 'special people'?"

"I-I don't know, Dean," Sam tried to say, but Dean spoke over him.

"If she looked like she was gettin' visions, don't you think that's a little _odd_ to just _find_ out on the road?" he asked, shaking his head. "She might be involved in our problem, like how you are."

Sam cringed lightly, shaking his head at Dean's point.

"Dean, I don't think so," he argued quietly. "Dean, we should at least ask before we go assuming how and if her mother died."

Dean shook his head at Sam before begrudgingly nodding, taking an angry swig of his beer.

* * *

She woke up in slow-motion.

Her eyes were bleary when she opened them.

She could practically hear her eyes move under the lids, they were so dry and puffy.

Her hair felt flat and heavy, and her body felt immovable.

 _Get your ass up, Ophelia, we have shit to hunt_ , she heard. She sat up instinctually, groaning mutely at her body's protests.

 _Shower's yours, I've been up for an hour. You look like shit, kid._

She bit back a remark, and stumbled to the bathroom, pulling off her clothes as she went.

Her boots gave her trouble, though, and she gave an angry yelp when she crashed down on the filthy bathroom tile.

She lay there, given up, looking horrible... Her pants to her knees, her shirt off and discarded, one of her boots on, and one of her socks off.

She could hardly even pick herself up, but she sat against the dirty toilet, and unlaced the boot.

When the boot finally agreed with her and slipped off, she stood, taking her pants off all the way.

She threw the pants out of the small, filthy room and caught her own gaze in the mirror.

It felt like she was looking at herself for the first time in years.

Her face was gaunt, her stomach was toned, yet some of her ribs were visible, and her collar bone was the most prominent feature of her body. Her arms were small, but toned from a lifetime of lifting salt and guns and other various weapons. Her black hair was long, and currently very greasy and limp. Her eyes seemed dull and lifeless.

With a deep sigh, she heard her father chuckle, _How can you even shoot the guns I give ya._

"Easy," she spat at her reflection. "You don't gotta be _fat_ to pull a trigger right," she jabbed, unclasping her bra.

She turned on the shower, undressing from any other article of clothing she missed, and washed the previous night off of her.


	8. Chapter Eight

_**A/N: Anyone confused on the whole dream BS? No? Awesome.**_

* * *

It was 6:00am when Ophelia next woke up.

She woke up silently, with a blank face as she slowly brought herself up to sit on the edge of her bed.

She stared at the faded pattern of the motel carpet, and felt... empty.

Sure, it wasn't the first time feeling that way, but the space felt even more spacious now.

Shaking her head clear, she got up and got dressed, as she had only bothered to get dressed in her bra and underwear after her shower.

After brushing her hair, she collected her duffel and put it in the trunk of Wanda.

When she came back in, she once again stared - but this time, at her father's grey duffel.

 _What do I do with this_ , she thought helplessly, distractedly placing her hand on her forehead, her brows screwing up as she fought to keep her emotions in check.

She jumped violently, nearly yelping, when she heard a knock behind her.

She took a calming breath before opening the door cautiously. She felt herself relax slightly when she saw it was once again Sam.

"Hey," she greeted with a slight pretense of normality.

Sam just blinked, smiled a bit sheepishly, and responded in kind.

The conversation between them halted, and it had the developing's of an awkward silence.

"So," Sam began. "How do you feel?" His question came out cautious and stifled, but regardless, Ophelia laughed mirthlessly.

"I feel..." she responded breathlessly. "Like I just lost the only shred of family left." She rested her head against the door she was now leaning against.

After another beat or two of silence, she returned her gaze to Sam, ignoring his sympathetic eyes, but Ophelia also picked up on his eyes knowingly flick to the left.

"How do _you_ feel?" she asked. It was a tad bit sarcastic, and Sam must have picked up on it, because he too laughed mirthlessly.

"Sympathetic," he replied.

This didn't surprise Ophelia. But what did, was what Sam said next.

"Lost my mother to a demon... Now Dean and I are pretty nervous that our dad's joinin' her. By his own means or otherwise," he added as an afterthought. "We're only in Wisconsin for the case in Fitchburg," Sam murmured, "The one with the comatose kids."

Ophelia nodded, staring at Sam. "We're only in Wisconsin for the case in Fitchburg," Sam murmured, "The one with the comatose kids."

"Heard about that," she responded quietly. "We were... uh, we were gonna check that out after we wrapped this spirit up."

Sam nodded silently, staring down to his feet.

"I'm assuming you read the note," she stated quietly, after a long moment.

Sam nodded.

"I lost my mama to a demon when I was eleven, I think," she continued on quietly, thumping her head gently against the door. "He missed her. More than I thought, though, huh?"

Another silence was shared between the two of them. But this time, less awkward, and more so the two hunters processing the information shared between them. After a glance up at Sam, she noticed another look of understanding dawning his face. He had been probing her for information, hadn't he?

She closed her eyes, too tired to try and probe back at what he wanted out of her.

"I'm going to go through my dad's duffel," she said with a heaving sigh. "Then I'm gonna hit the road."

She may have imagined it, but Sam's eyes widened a fraction at the news.

"Hopefully see you before then, Sammy."

She shut the door with a stiff-smiling nod, and rested her back against the door.

Resisting the urge to sink down and just sit on the floor for the rest of the morning, she reluctantly made her way to her father's duffel.

* * *

 ** _Eight years ago..._**

 _She could just barely hear them conversing from the dusty old bedroom her father had tucked her in._

 _"I didn't ask you to check up on us, Bobby," she heard her father say._

 _There was a silence, but Ophelia could just imagine Mr. Singer shrugging and offering her dad a beer._

 _"Felt obligated," she heard him say._

 _There was an even lengthier pause in the conversation until Mr. Singer spoke again._

 _"I can keep Opie here for a while, William. She'd be safe."_

 _Ophelia felt her chest constrict. She didn't want to leave her dad._

 _She was close to tears when she heard her father mumble a thanks and close the door behind him._

 _She hadn't even noticed Mr. Singer walking up the stairs and to her room._

 _She yelped when he opened the door softly and scrambled from the threshold a bit._

 _"Hey, hey... Calm down, Ope," he soothed. The light from the hallway silhouetted his face and she couldn't see his face._

 _He knelt down before her, and cleared her face from her wild ponytail._

 _Ophelia could hardly see past the tears in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall._

 _"C'mon, kid," he said softly, helping her up. "Let's get some food in you. You're thinner'n I remember."_

* * *

The only two things of sentimental value she found in the duffel, was some type of medallion-like thing celebrating her own baptism, and a picture of her mother and father on their wedding day.

The medallion had a shell, and below it, three drops of water. On the back, around the large circular medal, there they were - the words in bold: "In Celebration of Your Baptism".

She could just imagine her mother - exhausted but lovely - pouring a little handful of water on her child's head, and uttering the words a pastor speaks when baptizing.

Ophelia didn't remember, though. In fact, she hardly remembered what her mother looked like.

She could only just imagine the hazy face - the face on the picture copy and pasted onto the false memory - of her mother.

 _I don't remember what she looked like_, she realized with a jolt of alarm.

She stared at the picture with wide eyes, not knowing what to do. The only thing she _could_ do, was realize what she didn't know anymore.

She didn't remember the sound of her mom's voice. She didn't remember how she would sound when she humorously scolded her kids from the pastor's podium for horse playing in the pews during a service. She didn't remember how it sounded when her mother and father sang soft hymnals for lullabies. She didn't remember how it sounded to hear her mother sing. Ophelia could only just remember _what_ she sung.

She gently folded the picture and stuffed it in her leather jacket's pocket before discarding the duffel into the trashcan in the room. She balled up the few flannels she deemed worthy to keep, haphazardly grabbed the items she had laid out on the floor and stormed out of the room.

She reached Wanda and rounded back to the trunk. She opened it and flung her handfuls of things into the space carelessly, ignoring how empty the trunk looked without her dad's bag next to hers.

With a definitive slam, the trunk was closed. She rested her hands on the light blue paint, and tried to control her breathing.

"Bobby," she suddenly breathed.

She needed to tell Bobby.

She got in the car steadfastly, but as she fished around her pockets for the keys to Wanda, she felt herself pause once again.

Running a hand through her hair, she realized this had been the first time in years that she had been in the driver's seat.

Shaking her head clear of her thoughts, she gripped the key tightly and stuck it in the ignition.

With a passing glance at the black '67 Chevy Impala, she turned out of the parking lot and made her way to Sioux Falls.


	9. Chapter Nine

_**A/N: I did a thing! I made my own picture thing! I'm proud of it. Woo.**_

* * *

It hadn't taken her long to reach Bobby's, but it certainly took her quite a while to get herself in the door.

She hadn't really kept in touch with Bobby. It must have been years since her and her father last spoke to him.

 _Would he accept her into his home? Would he be bitter? Would he chew her out?_

Ophelia gnawed on her lip, gripping the ruddy (but still white) steering wheel of Wanda with an iron grip, engine still running and ready if she changed her mind.

She hadn't noticed the old man making his way to her car door until he knocked against the glass.

The window on the driver's side usually stuck, so instead of trying to crank it down, she turned the keys to kill the engine and opened the door.

She stood behind the opened car door, her hand resting on the window.

She stood silent for a few long moments, looking the old man over - as Bobby was no-doubt doing the same to her.

"I'll be triple-dog-damned," he muttered to himself. " _Ophelia_?"

She bit her lip again before stepping away from the car and closing the car door with a loud creak.

Bobby hadn't changed a damn bit, save for a small patch of gray on his chin.

Ophelia smiled the biggest smile she could (which wasn't impressive), and croaked, "Hey, Bobby."

She saw Bobby glance at Wanda and back to her, eyes a bit wide.

"Why don't you come in, doll. You look dead."

* * *

She slept.

She went upstairs and slept.

She didn't know how long, but it felt like a small forever.

All she knew was that she woke up to the sound of an engine rumbling up a gravel driveway.

She didn't move from the bed, though. She only rolled over to her back, tore her tight pants off under the blanket, and rolled to her other side, tucking the blanket over her shoulder again.

She faded into a dream.

* * *

 _She was unaware of where she was, but she was in a chair._

 _It wasn't too long until she heard a smooth voice call her name._

 _She couldn't look around, though, as her head seemed rooted in it's place laying uncomfortably against her own shoulder._

 _She could only stare ahead, but she could **just** make out where she was. _

_It was obviously a motel room. The shabby carpet was grimy, and the wallpaper was peeling at the baseboard._

 _She felt a coarse hand softly brush against her shoulder, which she now realized was bare._

 _Whereas she had just been in a chair, she was now laying on her back on a bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling of the motel room._

 _A shadowed figure was beside her, his face and features silhouetted entirely from her eyesight._

 _She moved her head to the side to see clearer, but despite the limited vision, his face was unfathomable in the darkness._

 _She felt her pulse speed up as the figure leaned down to her face. Was it fear or anticipation? She couldn't tell, but she knew that she felt a knot in her stomach - that feeling you get when you need to violently move your body to free yourself of the rock settling in your stomach._

 _The figure kept leaning further and further, until he was face-to-face with her. She could feel his breath brush against her face in short, controlled puffs._

 _The figure got up slightly, and positioned himself above her, and brought his lips to her neck, just under her jaw._

* * *

She jolted awake with a yelp, clapping a hand on her neck. She sat up quickly, breathing heavily, silently willing away the moist teeth marks she felt on her neck.

She bolted up from her bed, narrowly missing her discarded shoes, and threw open the door.

She was cold and tired, her exposed legs sprouting goosebumps in the drafty Singer house. She was trembling. She didn't know why, but she knew it wasn't from the cold.

She swiftly made her way to the bathroom and flicked the light on, not bothering to close the door behind her. She cleared her tangled hair from one side of her neck to the other, and desperately searched for the mark that she still felt.

Nothing, however, was present to account for the ache she still felt there.

With a slightly distressed exhale, she steadied her hands on the sink and tried to calm her breathing.

She didn't even hear the sound of footsteps on the creaky stairs over the roaring sound of her own heartbeat in her ears.

It wasn't until she looked up in the mirror and spotted a very confused and wide-eyed Sam Winchester that she audibly yelped. Her arms jerked and, like a cliché horror scene from the fifties, one of her hands landed on her heart as if she were a swooning actress in a movie of the aforementioned era.

She tried to voice her frustration at being so startled, but voted that closing the door of the bathroom was a better course of action, as she seemed to fully realize that she wasn't fully clothed.

" _Ophelia?_ " she heard Sam behind the door. "Are you _okay_?" He knocked once.

Embarrassed, and - with a quick peek in the mirror to confirm - _very much_ crimson, she held her frozen fingers on her ears in a vain effort to cool them.

"Sam, what the _fuck_ are you doing here?" She barked instead, proud that it was void of a flustered tone or cracking words.

Sam was silent on the other side, and that aggravated her. She peeked in the mirror again. After confirming her complexion was the normal color again, she opened the door a crack.

Sam was still there, evidentially, as he backed away immediately from the door, still wide-eyed.

"Can you answer," Ophelia snapped. "Or at least go back downstairs so I can get back to my room?"

Sam retreated.

With a huff, Ophelia brought open the door and stomped into her room.


	10. Chapter Ten

_**A/N:** I feel like it's been a while since I did author's notes... And since I've updated! It's been a VERY distracted last few weeks... Went through the death of my grandfather on the Eve of Christmas Eve, so there's that. _

_Anyway, so here's this chapter. It was actually kinda fun to write... :D  
_

 _OH, and before I forget, I FINALLY got around to watching Supernatural again, and I noticed that I had previously believed the Impala to be only a two-door... *slaps own hand* nope, it's not a two-door, it's a four-door. Bad. *slaps own hand* My bad. xD  
I fixed that and rewrote that hiccup.  
I've actually gone through pretty much all the chapters and ironed out dumb sentences and stuff, so feel free to reread!  
_

* * *

The moment she slammed the door to her room, however, she felt like she should just hop out of the window and leave as fast as she could.

What the hell was Sam Winchester doing here? Would Dean be here with him? Had they followed her?

Too many questions needed to be answered, she decided. She pulled on her pants and went downstairs.

The moment her foot landed on the first floor's floor, she saw Sam and Dean in Bobby's living room.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

Annoyed silence answered this question, as Dean and Ophelia had spoken simultaneously.

"I've known Bobby since I was a kid," they defended simultaneously once again.

Ophelia was getting more and more agitated at this cliché moment and to interrupt it, she stormed to the kitchen.  
Allowing herself time to cool off, she got herself a beer from Bobby's fridge.

"What about Fitchburg?" She asked, ignoring Dean's amused gaze and looking directly at Sam. "Thought you guys had a case there."

"We - uh - we did. We finished it yesterday," he responded hesitantly, avoiding long eye contact.

Bobby walked in from his den suddenly. "You've been lights-out for at least three days, sweetheart," he murmured kindly, approaching her in the kitchen. "... Before you go paranoid-hunter _She-Hulk_ on us."

Ophelia blinked slightly. Good thing she knew _now_...

"Thanks, Bobby," she murmured, numbly turning to rummage for food.

"You needed it," he replied grimly. "Where'd you meet these boys?"

"Wisconsin," Dean answered for her before she could even open her mouth.

Bobby nodded and looked between Sam and Dean, and Ophelia.

"You need to tell me what happened when these boys pass through, Ope," Bobby murmured only to her when Dean turned around to sit with Sam on the couch.

Ophelia didn't feel like responding, so she merely threw some bread in the toaster and aggressively swigged her beer.

* * *

Turns out the Winchesters _had_ known Bobby since childhood; possibly a little better than she did, too.

She hadn't really _known_ Bobby outside of Church until she was eleven, whereas Bobby was pretty much _Uncle Bobby_ to Sam and Dean, and they had almost grown up in that house when they were younger.

She almost felt offended that they knew Bobby better... But she decided to shut that jealousy up by shoving toast in her face.

She still felt heat creep up her cheeks when she glanced at Sam, and that bugged her too.

It wasn't long after that the Winchester's left, towards upstate New York.

She dreaded retelling her story, but Bobby deserved to know.

"So," he began, sitting across from her place on the couch. "What happened, kid."

She wanted to deliver and not overthink, to get it over and done with and have it off her chest, minimal emotions attached... but as soon as she started explaining, she wept. She grieved, and she explained. She couldn't stop herself, the moment she opened her mouth, truth, emotions, and sorrow _poured_ out.  
That usually never happened to her. She could usually bottle it up. She could usually play it off as though she was fine.

Not today, apparently.

It was a few hours of comfort and consoling before Bobby convinced her to go back to bed, and she wholeheartedly agreed and gave the man the biggest hug she'd ever given anybody.

It was a nice night, she decided, to cry herself empty into a pillow.

* * *

It was a little after six in the morning when Ophelia woke up to her phone rattling away on her nightstand.

Hurriedly, she scrambled to it, her groggy mind fooling her, telling her it must be her dad.

The contact on the screen - of course - was not her father's, but one of his old friends from the neighborhood... _before_ hunting. Ophelia's old babysitter...

Shocked at seeing the number, she answered and immediately was bombarded by loud barking and a shouted hello.

"Hello?" Ophelia answered, confused and groggily twisted on her stomach from how she had been sleeping, her elbow holding her weight.

There was a muffled barking now, and a panting woman.

"Gertrude?" Ophelia ventured, confused and halfway to having her guard up.

"Opie!" The woman exclaimed, seeming very exhausted. "Darling, I tried getting a hold of your father, but his phone kept booting me straight to voicemail!"

As Ophelia opened her mouth to apologize, instead she winced.

"Now, I hate to be a bother, really I do, especially to you and your father.. But this _dog_ has been _relentless_ in his need for the two of you! Honestly, I've had to keep him in his kennel to prevent further damage to my yard! And that causes the neighbors to fuss about the racket and _that_ causes me to feel awful, so I put him back inside and _THAT_ makes a mess of the _house_... Endless cycle these past few days!" she chuckled. "He really has been such an angel until this past two days or so... I have no idea what's gotten into him, but what do you say you come and take him back, hm?"

Ophelia blinked at how Gertrude seemed to say _all_ those things in _one breath_ and stammered, "Uh-um, I-I mean... yeah!"

She turned her body so that she was sitting on her ass and not her elbow. Shaking the numb feeling out of her arm, she adjusted her grip on her phone. "I'll be there in an hour or two."

With a huge heaved sigh of obvious relief, Gertrude thanked her kindly and hung up.

With a long sigh, Ophelia pressed the phone against her right eyebrow, where a headache was already forming, squeezing her eyes shut.

"I should put some pants on," she muttered to herself.

So she did.

She threw on her discarded jeans, her oldest surviving pair - unsoiled by blood, and subject to _many_ rips - and threw on her jacket - a fancy-ass thing that was pretty much a leather jacket on the outside, and a warm hoodie inside with holes for her thumbs at the ends of the sleeves and a hood peaking from the collar of the leather part of the jacket. It had been a birthday gift a few years ago from her father.

She pulled on her brown boots, and stomped once on each foot to allow her foot to settle right on the insole. They were the most comfortable shoe she'd ever worn for the job. They were basically a feminine version of the typical work boot you'd see on men who worked construction.

Steel toe came in handy for defensive kicking.

She opened her door and wandered downstairs looking for Bobby. He was up, and making coffee.

"Hey there, kid," he greeted, his back still turned.

"Hey," she replied walking forward to grab some coffee before she headed out. "I'm gonna leave in a few to go and grab Teagan, and then I'll be back."

Bobby looked up and to her with a smile in his gaze. "Ol' Teag's still kickin'?"

Ophelia chuckled in response. "Ah course 'e is," she felt her accent accidently slipping to emulate Bobby's. Clearing her throat inconspicuously, she smiled at Bobby. "That ol' hound'll outlive all of us."

A quiet coffee-for-breakfast later, she bid Bobby farewell and went to Wanda, boots crunching the gravel at her feet.

* * *

Walking up the steps of her old neighbor's house in her hometown was painful, and she accidentally wobbled while marching up the bungalow's porch steps when she caught sight of her old house. Shaking her head clear, she could hear Teagan's noble barks coming from the back.

The door was thrown open before she even could knock, and she was given a savage hug by her elderly former neighbor.

Gertrude looked elated to see her, but Ophelia realized the moment the old woman's eyes peered over her shoulder to the car that she'd have to break the news.

"Where's your-"

"Gertrude," she interrupted quietly.

The old woman's warm brown eyes flitted back to Ophelia's exhausted ones.

Ophelia felt as though her eyes were puffy and dry, and she could almost physically feel how deep the bags under her eyes probably looked.

Gertrude's eyebrows furrowed as she ushered in the young woman.

"Your father," Gertrude inquired gently, wringing her hands like a doting grandmother.

"He..." Ophelia bit her tongue, clenched her jaw, and cleared her throat.

" _I'm_ here," she feebly answered instead. "I just want my dog, Nana Gertie."

Gertrude stared wide-eyed at the woman before her.

Clearing her throat again, Ophelia tried once more to let the foreign words fall from her mouth. "He passed, Gertie. Just a few days ago."

Gertrude's hand shot to her mouth, covering a gasp.

Ophelia didn't need to see her old friend's reaction to the news... She turned and forced her feet to carry her to the backyard.

She opened the slider and heard Teagan's attention-seeking whines. He was pacing back and forth in the rather large kennel when he saw Ophelia. The whine he was in the middle of turned into a sharp, shrill bark. It sounded like a yelp.

With tears in her eyes, she swiftly made her way to her dog.

The old graying Tamaskan whined again and licked at her fingers as they unlocked the large kennel, his triangular ears lowered slightly.

Teagan nudged the door open for her and immediately knocked her over from her crouch, onto her ass.

It was then that Ophelia grabbed the Tamaskan by his full neck and buried her face into the bush of fur, hysterically sobbing into the dog's strong chest, hugging herself to him.

Teagan's chin wrapped around her neck in his own version of an embrace and his near invisible brows were drawn upward making him look sorrowful, his sand colored eyes flicking back and forth.

He was making soft, quick sounds in the back of his throat, not quite a bark or growl, but not a whine either. But she guessed it was to comfort her. It worked.

Releasing herself from him, she moved her hands to the sides of his neck, near his jaw.

Tearfully she smiled at him as she stared into his soft sandy eyes. Gently, she scratched him behind the ears. "Let's get outta here, huh, boy?"

With a single flick of his tail, she knew he was ready.

Swiftly wiping her face of her tears, she walked back inside to bid Gertrude goodbye.

When they approached the slider, Ophelia spotted Gertrude retreating from her spot by the window. The old woman gave Ophelia a watery smile.

"You're a wonderful girl, Ophelia," she murmured with an embrace. "I'll see you around sometime?"

Ophelia was silent for a moment, looking down Gertrude's back and at her companion.

"Yeah," she lied. "I'll see you soon, Nana Gertie."

With a final squeeze, they broke the hug and Ophelia and Teagan left.

Opening Wanda's passenger door, Ophelia murmured affectionately to Tegan, "You get my spot now, Teag."

With a whine and a hesitant glance, Teagan hopped in the car and sat nobly on the aged white leather.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Who doesn't love dogs? :D _  
_I just HAD to add a badass huntin' dog... And Tamaskan wolf dogs looks startlingly like wolves - HENCE THE NAME - so I thought who WOULDN'T want a wolf defending their six against supernatural shit? Haha_


	11. Chapter Eleven

_**A/N:**_ _This was heavily inspired by the song "Cigarette Daydream"... haha..._

 _Also, I've decided to have the name of this girl be Desdamona - it was previously Eris, but this name is... it works for my plans because I'm a nut and need to have names mean a certain specific thing that applies to characters!_

* * *

Sitting in the hotel while it rained brought an eerie lonely feeling that Ophelia couldn't particularly explain, despite the company she had.

The girl next to her had cracked the window open and was staring adoringly at the rain, even closing her eyes and taking a deep inhale.

This inspired Ophelia to do the same, savoring the enjoyable smell the wet pine trees above them brought.

The girl looked over and smirked, her puzzlingly colored eyes sparkled with the mischief Ophelia was getting slowly getting used to.

"What?" Ophelia voiced quietly, unsure of herself and the gaze Eris had leveled her with.

Des's smirk mellowed, and she sighed. "I was gonna ask if you wanted to go out and do something _fun_..."

Ophelia must have looked skeptical because Des chortled.

"Listen, Choir Room," she began, lightly socking Ophelia in the arm. "You don't gotta do anything you don't want to, I'm just messing with you."

Shaking her sandy blonde hair loose from the messy bun she had had it in, she looked to Ophelia again. "Hey, you don't mind if I smoke, right?"

Des pulled out a pack from her jacket pocket and extracted one before looking thoughtfully at the curious glance Ophelia spared the cigarettes. "You want one?" Des offered with another small smirk.

Ophelia looked into Des's eyes momentarily in shock of the offer. She was going to object, but her expression turned contemplative.

"Okay," Ophelia nodded hesitantly.

Des smirked with pride before thumping another cigarette out of the pack and offered it to her.

"You want me to light it for you?" Des asked as she lit her own.

Ophelia shook her head, taking the lighter herself. "I saw my uncle do this plenty of times... but thanks," Ophelia added.

She placed the cigarette in her mouth and as she ignited the flame, she gently drew the heat in the cigarette with a gentle pull through the tabaco and nicotine in the wrapping

"Your dad lets you do this shit?" Ophelia asked strained, masking a slight cough at the invasion of her lungs.

Des snorted and leaned back on the _luxurious_ bay window of the motel. " _Hell_ _no_!" She laughed lowly. "But I'm almost eighteen now. Not like he can do shit."

Ophelia took a moment of observing the nonchalant and experienced way Des took a pull of her cigarette with a furrowed brow. Experimentally, Ophelia mimicked and felt the sensation of the smoke fill her lungs first-hand. It startled Ophelia to see the smoke emit from her nose somehow, and that brought an unexpected laugh from her, causing the smoke to seep out of her nose and mouth. This made Des laugh as well.

"There you go!" Des encouraged with a chuckle. "You'll get used to it if you do it regularly."

The girls became quiet, each taking puffs of their cigarettes, watching the rain.

Their fathers were hunting a few demons, deciding for their daughters that they'd stay behind.

The girls had had no qualms - demons were an inexperienced danger they both wanted nothing of. Not yet, at least.

Ophelia dreams were still haunted by Damon, and Des... well, from what she confided in Ophelia, it seemed her own memories still haunted _her_.

"Lia, do you ever miss your mom?" Des inquired suddenly, her voice quiet and faraway.

Surprised by the question, Ophelia's head swiveled to stare at her friend.

Ophelia immediately felt small, looking at her knees - which were hugged to her body to shelter herself from the chill of the rain.

"Yeah," Ophelia responded, laying her head on her knees to peer at her friend beside her. Des never spoke of either of their mothers.

"I was thinking about it recently," Des said matter-of-factly, nodding to herself. "I don't miss mine."

She looked to Ophelia with a small, sardonic smile. "I mourn the _idea_ of her, I've decided."

 _That made sense._.. Ophelia didn't voice this. She only nodded.

Des stared at her friend, studying the way her bony shoulders sheltered herself and her knees delicately. She looked fragile.

"I think you should stop listening to your dad so much," Des said abruptly, looking very resolute.

Ophelia was once again surprised, but she only rolled her eyes with a self-depreciating laugh. "'Cuz _that'll_ go great," she retorted.

"I'm serious," Des cut in, shaking her head. Maneuvering herself to sit to face Ophelia, she continued. "Your dad saps the energy and spirit outta you," Des explained vehmently. "Show him attitude! Get your way!"

Ophelia looked doubtful and hesitant.

"You'd feel more confident, I promise you," Des added.

Ophelia shook her head. "I don't wanna do that."

Des stared a moment more before shrugging. "At least _you_ made that decision. I can respect that..." she leaned nonchalantly against the wall once more.

"Want another?" Des asked, picking up her pack again and offering it to Ophelia. Nodding, Ophelia gently picked out another.

Des lit both the cigarettes and they started a conversation about creatures they hadn't seen and those they wanted to.

It wasn't until the silence that had fallen between them, that their fathers were suddenly there, opening the door.

Des seemed unphased, even at her father's exclamation of, "Desdemona!" - but she immediately put out the cigarette. Ophelia, however, panicked.

When the door had swung open, she had jumped a full foot and scrambled to put out the incriminating stick of death out.

When she looked up, she briefly noticed Des father's exasperated but resigned look. But when she looked at her father, she froze.

He was neither angry nor surprised... his ragged and slightly bloody face had a far off look. The look usually reserved for the accompanying sentence of "you look like your mother right now".

With a small sigh, Ophelia's father pumped his fingers, clenching his fist but then releasing. With a silent head-jerk towards the door, he and his daughter made their way to their room.

They packed up in silence, Ophelia's hands trembling unceasingly.

The moment they entered Wanda, her father's hand lingered upon the keys in the ignition.

He turned suddenly, causing Ophelia to instinctually flinch into the seat back behind her

"You ain't smokin', kid," he said gruffly and shortly.

Nodding inauidibly, Ophelia distracted herself by petting Teagan - who was in the back seat with her.

Her father turned back around, his hands once again lingering. "Your ma wouldn't like it," he said matter-of-factly. "She wouldn't want you gettin' into her habit, yuh hear?"

"Yessir," Ophelia responded immediately.

As Wanda started up, Ophelia looked to her friend's window. She was surprised to see Desdamona standing at the window waving with her smirk upon her face, mouthing the words: "I'll call you!"

Smiling softly, Ophelia nodded and waved again as they pulled out of the parking lot.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** Yay for flashbacks! Thar's so many in dis story. *eyeroll*_


End file.
